


Restored

by glim



Category: Good Omens - Gaiman & Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-20
Updated: 2010-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley's ill, Aziraphale's fussy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restored

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens kinkmeme prompt - H/C with sick/hung-over/poisoned/smited/otherwise incapacited Crowley being ~~taken advantage of~~ comforted by worried-but-calm-and-in-charge Aziraphale. Not too explicit sex, bonus points for lots of non-sexual touching, feverish rambling, references to historical events, or miraculous healing that is not of either character's doing.

Monday started out grey, got gloomier as the day went on, and yielded to further gloom around midday when a cold, driving rain began to fall. The few customers who tended to frequent Aziraphale's bookshop on their lunch hour failed to appear once the storm arrived and, after a couple hours of absolute quiet in the shop, Aziraphale retreated to the back room with the weekend paper and tea. Aside from the storm outside as background noise, the afternoon continued peacefully until the door of the shop was opened with such vehemence that Aziraphale knew immediately who had decided to come in despite the downpour.

With a rattle of the glass panes in their frames, a bluster of wind, and slash of rain the storm outside found its way into Aziraphale's shop along with Crowley, who was blustering himself, probably about the storm or whatever else he deemed worthy of such attack, and stomping through the empty front room. He seemed to have run out of bluster by the time he reached the back and instead of inveighing against the weather, he just stood in the doorway looking damp and irritated.

"I thought you'd be puttering. You're always puttering. Or, or, whatever it is you do when you're not selling books." The accusation was made somewhat less effective when Crowley noticed he was dripping in a rather unceremonious manner; an attempt to miracle the rain off himself only resulted in a noise of fizzing steam and frustration. "Dam—_ah_, fuck. Thanks for that."

Aziraphale waved his hand again to make sure both Crowley and his floor were completely dry and gave a small nod. "My pleasure. Shall I go have a putter and you can burst in on me once more? Though, perhaps without so much dripping about the shop this time."

Crowley shuddered and dropped into the chair across from Aziraphale at the table. "Don't bother. I'm not sure I can stand getting that wet again. Do you have any idea how miserable it is out there?"

"Not really, I haven't been out since early this morning. It looks nasty." Aziraphale refolded the paper to clear space at the table. "I thought you liked misery? And, what else, malcontent?"

"Not _my_ misery. That never does anyone any good. Bad. Whatever." Running a hand through already disheveled hair, Crowley let out a sigh. "D'you need help with the crossword?"

Aziraphale peered over the rims of his spectacles and frowned at Crowley. Up until two minutes ago he had been doing the puzzle section from the weekend paper in peace and wasn't sure he fancied an audience. "I think I might be able to manage. Or I could put it aside and we could have a drink…"

"Or I could just watch you do it."

Aziraphale frowned again. Watching usually meant helping and helping usually meant taking over and finishing it himself in Crowley's dictionary. "Quietly?"

Crowley shrugged. When asked why exactly he'd come over, he shrugged again and mumbled something about not wanting to stay in tonight. There might have also been a mumble about Aziraphale's puzzle-solving abilities being even less interesting than his puttering, but that was best ignored. It was, after all, nice enough to have Crowley stop by in the middle of a stormy day just for the sake of stopping by, even if he had taken to pointing out the answers to the crossword Aziraphale hadn't solved yet.

Which wasn't nearly as annoying as when he simply made the answers appear just before Aziraphale started to write them in, though it was disconcerting how subdued Crowley was. Quiet, subdued, and from the way he kept taking off his sunglasses to rub at his eyes, tired.

"You could've stayed in," Aziraphale pointed out gently when something like a pout started to form on Crowley's face.

"And do what? Already slept and tried watching television. Which, before you ask, _is_ more interesting than watching you do the crossword that slowly." This time, Crowley sounded like he was aiming for acerbic, but missed and ended up with sulky, the poor dear. He shuddered again and did his best to huddle into his coat without appearing to be doing just that. "What?"

"I was just going to suggest we have tea. Ah, in a few minutes," Aziraphale added at the sound the shop door being opened. He pushed the crossword across the table to let Crowley finish it and only let himself frown yet again once he'd left the back room.

The few customers who milled about the shop didn't stay long enough to purchase anything but did give Aziraphale enough time away from Crowley to allow the urge to frown over him increase into the stronger urge to fret at him. Not that demons, or, at least, this demon, took well to being fretted over. In Aziraphale's experience, which, granted, was limited to Crowley and the predicaments he managed to get himself into since they Arranged their relationship, the fretting needed to be done quietly and in such a way that didn't get him hissed at for his troubles.

Three customers and one near-purchase later, Aziraphale returned to the back room to discover Crowley had abandoned the table for the settee and had cast aside the crossword to flick through a paperback novel. "Since when did you start reading another remotely contemporary?"

"Oh. Ah, I haven't. Somebody donated a whole box. I picked out the ones I thought you might like, the crime and detective novels, if I recall correctly." There'd been more of what Aziraphale would call 'pulp,' but a look through the pile of used books had yielded about a half-dozen of the sort that Crowley preferred.

"Yeah, don't mind those." Crowley glanced up with little smile that softened his features and made the search through the old, dusty box of yellowed paperbacks worth it. "What did you say about tea before?" he asked, looking down at the book instead of at Aziraphale.

"Just give me a few moments, dear."

Once he had his back to Crowley and could busy himself with the kettle and tea things, Aziraphale indulged himself in a smile despite his mounting concern. It was… well. Aziraphale supposed pleasant wasn't exactly the word to use to describe the sort of smile Crowley had given him. There was always something of the serpent in Crowley's expression, something sly, indefinable, and incredibly familiar. The drained, tired look had made him appear a bit pale and pinched, but, that smile. Yes. Pleasant wasn't an altogether bad word, either for the smile or for the effect it had on Aziraphale. Which was an interesting addition to the concern Aziraphale already felt, but even the worry he felt for Crowley was oddly pleasant.

Aziraphale made tea a little more meticulously than usual, adding honey and lemon to the pot, and found Crowley had dozed off on the settee by the time he finished. Persuading Crowley to drink down a cup proved easier than he predicted and the fussing went unnoticed, mostly because by the time Aziraphale worked himself up to full fussing-mode, which included telling Crowley to take off his coat, shoes, and sunglasses and stretch out under the throw on the settee, Crowley had already fallen asleep. As a result, Aziraphale made a rather thorough fuss over him, removing the said articles of clothing himself and smoothing the blanket over Crowley. Leaning in closer, he brushed the back of his hand over Crowley's cheek and, having unfastened the top couple buttons of the white shirt he wore, over the pale skin of his chest. He was starting to feel warm, warmer than he really ought to, warm enough that Aziraphale decided he ought to stay close to Crowley. He settled himself on the settee with another cup of tea and a novel he'd read enough times in the past two hundred years that he could put it down as many times as he liked without losing his place.

The interruptions were few. Aziraphale got up once to close the shop and once to move back to the table when he needed to turn on a few lamps to read and didn't want to disturb Crowley. Quiet settled in the shop for most the evening; Aziraphale read, finished the pot of tea, and refilled it and made sure it stayed warm. Crowley slept soundly for a few hours, though his rest grew more fitful after a developing cough woke him up a couple times. Finally, he pushed the blanket off his chest to cough into his sleeve and to peer around the room, disoriented.

"Hey… wha…? Oh. Your place?" Crowley half sat up on the settee and blinked at Aziraphale. His voice had gone deep and rough with sleep and got even rougher after he coughed. "Forgot I fell asleep here…"

"I'm not surprised; you've been sleeping for quite a few hours." Aziraphale perched on the edge of the settee and offered Crowley a half-full mug of tea cooled off enough to drink immediately. "Here…"

"M'all right." Crowley's protest was less than convincing. He looked and sounded worse than he had this afternoon, pale, wan, and definitely ill. "Or, er, maybe not," he mumbled after what looked like a painful swallow of tea.

"You sound poorly. Keep drinking." Aziraphale urged the tea back at Crowley and gently touched the back of his hand to Crowley's cheek. He shied away from the touch at first, but nuzzled into it when Aziraphale stroked his warm skin. "You shouldn't've gotten wet earlier."

Crowley lowered his eyes, but didn't move from Aziraphale's touch. A cough cut off whatever reply he had and twisted him away from Aziraphale.

"Right. You need to rest and stay warm. Let's go upstairs."

Crowley coughed again and rested a hand on Aziraphale's arm to steady himself as they stood up from the settee. He gave Aziraphale another his rare, unguarded smiles. "I think I've waited two hundred years for you to say that, angel."

Something fluttered inside Aziraphale. Something strange and wonderful, something he'd been trying to ignore for years, hadn't let him feel for years. Something that in a sudden, strange, and wonderful way was restored to him in Crowley's shaky touch and even shakier words.

* * * *

The next time he woke up, Crowley was in a bedroom he immediately knew wasn't his own, though it took him a few minutes to piece together a few memories from last night. He remembered the walk upstairs, or, at least, he remembered Aziraphale walking him upstairs and making fretting noises every time he coughed. He also remembered the tea Aziraphale brought him and how surprised he'd been last night that the bedroom really wasn't just storage space for the shop. There were books and manuscripts, of course, but there were also things like a tattered cardigan thrown over the back of a chair and the escritoire Aziraphale had bought sometime after the Restoration.

Fighting the wave of dizziness and confusion that resulted from sitting up, Crowley peered around the room. Yes, there were the teacups and Aziraphale's discarded jumper and his writing desk, covered with who knows how many years of correspondence. They used to write each other such long letters, years ago, tempting and thwarting and missing each other intensely and producing centuries of missives telling each other so. The memories were strange and blurred, but there was a pleasure around those blurred edges that Crowley let combine with the memories of Aziraphale putting him to bed and fluttering about him last night. The fussing and the letters and Aziraphale sitting next to the bed… It all felt like one memory right now, rather than a few thousand years of getting himself involved with the angel.

Crowley rubbed his hands over his face and hitched himself up against the pillows to look around the room. No Aziraphale, and he couldn't tell if it was still night or if it was still raining outside. It was doing that last night, he remembered that, too, the sound of the rain and Aziraphale's quiet, reassuring voice.

He didn't, however, remember that being awake and trying to sit up would remind him how incredibly wretched he felt. His head throbbed hard enough that opening his eyes hurt and the first breath he took lead him into a coughing fit that felt as if it ripped through his chest. It didn't seem to matter that he didn't _need_ to breathe, he just coughed and coughed until his throat was raw and his body ached.

A strong, warm handed rested in the center of his back and an even warmer body settled in next to Crowley on the bed. There was something sweet and soothing to drink and Aziraphale smoothed his hair back from his forehead with a comforting sound.

"I should've known you'd wake up the minute I left. Come on, sit up. You can lean against me," Aziraphale offered and held out his arm.

Crowley hung back a few moments. He hated feeling like this, weak and needy, but not as much as he heated feeling cold and achy. One more coaxing, concerned look from Aziraphale was enough to get him to move into the curve of the angel's arm. A sudden, violent shudder gripped Crowley and he curled himself into the Aziraphale until it passed and he could feel the warmth of Aziraphale's body against his.

"You smell good," he mumbled into Aziraphale's chest. Some part of his fever-muddled mind was trying to tell him that not talking would be a good thing, and, actually, that not thinking might be an even better one. But he was shivering and sweating and Aziraphale was miraculously, simultaneously, both warm enough and cool enough to be comforting.

"Do I? I never knew you were so fond of the scent of old books and tea leaves."

Nodding against Aziraphale, Crowley made what he supposed was a sound of agreement. "…s'like… heaven… sorta. S'good…"

Aziraphale chuckled, low and deep in his throat, and Crowley felt more than heard the sound. "Now I'm sure that's the fever talking, my dear."

"Ngh."

Aziraphale laughed and, again, it was more a feeling than a sound, a warm swell of what, to Crowley, felt very much like affection.

And that feeling... That was probably the fever talking to him. But, between the way his thoughts kept getting confused and wandering off into places Crowley couldn't follow them and the way Aziraphale's gentle fingers had started to stroke his hair back from his forehead, whatever his fever was saying sounded pretty good. It was telling him to do things like curl in closer and lean into the hair stroking and rub his face into that convenient space between Aziraphale's neck and the collar of his dressing gown. It was resolutely not reminding him that demons, no matter how ill, don't go wrapping themselves around tartan-flannel clad angels with strong, soothing fingers and gentle, cool lips.

"You _are_ still feverish. Can you drink some water for me?" Aziraphale murmured against Crowley's forehead and added, "It's not cold water," in response to the shiver that went through Crowley.

He sat up and accepted the glass of water obediently, drank a few sips, and then let Aziraphale urge him to take a few more after a rather painful coughing jag. When Aziraphale asked if he wanted tea, all Crowley did was nod, vaguely aware that the same part of his mind that had decided he'd attach himself to Aziraphale as close and as often as possible had also decided to let Aziraphale fuss at him as much as possible. Which, Crowley figured, was how these things went with him and Aziraphale. The little frown line between Aziraphale's eyes brooked no opposition to his suggestions for water or tea or more sleep, and, besides, Crowley was too caught up in his fevered desire for comfort and in a sudden spin of memory.

"I kept them all, you know. Read them, too."

"That's good, dear… All of --?" The frown lines on Aziraphale's forehead deepened and he leaned in to touch his lips to Crowley's forehead again.

"The letters we wrote… all the time. _You_ always wrote. After you came back to London, and when I was asleep all those years… Found them at my bedside." In his mind he saw the pages and pages of neat, elaborate penmanship and Crowley was struck by how strange it had been to sleep for a century while Aziraphale wrote him all those letters. He shouldn't even care. Except part of him did. The feverish part, probably, Crowley reassured himself, and tried to push the mug away. "More tea? 'ziraphale, can't drink all that…"

"It'll help you rest. If you sleep for me now, perhaps I'll write you another letter," Aziraphale urged and pressed the cup to Crowley's lips until he drank down tea that was just warm and just sweet enough. "Good… there. Just relax."

And he did. He wanted to tell Aziraphale that he wouldn't do that again, sleep for so many years and leave hundreds of letters unanswered, but it was easier to slip his hand into Aziraphale's dressing gown and rest his head against Aziraphale's shoulder. Easier to just watch the frown fade from Aziraphale's face than to try and get the dizzy, spinning thoughts in his mind to form reassuring words just before he felt the weariness of sleep and illness tug at his consciousness.

* * * *

He'd left London during the Civil Wars when the pain of religious persecution had become too great and too prevalent. Not that the countryside was better, but he had to leave, to see how those who weren't caught up in the center of the struggle fared in the time of war. Crowley stayed in the city and they exchanged long, frequent letters in such a jumble of polyglossia that they might as well have been in code. They continued to write, he and Crowley, even after the monarchy had been restored and Crowley persuaded him back to London. Crowley had loved the Restoration, the re-opening of the theatre and the decadent court life, and he had loved the tangle of temptation and thwarting the two of them had gotten involved in for the next century. He'd managed to drag Aziraphale to a number of bawdy comedies and seemed to derive as much amusement from Aziraphale's distaste as he did from the performance itself. He'd also gotten very good at slipping his hand into Aziraphale's during quiet moments and at pulling the angel into small, secret moments of physical intimacy.

By the time they'd begun to realize exactly what they were tangling themselves up in, another series of revolutions had started and this time Crowley left. He slept, and Aziraphale wrote what he suspected was a rather embarrassing, rather wistful collection of letters full of veiled longing. Well, it had been the Victorian era, he'd become enamored of the epistolary novel that century after having avoided them all throughout the previous one, and Aziraphale hadn't really expected Crowley to read the bundle of papers.

Such strange endearing things, those letters and the memory of their having been written. Aziraphale was tempted to start going through the ones he himself had kept, but then thought better, as the memories were, in some way, sweeter than the reliving of them. He had Crowley to look after, and even though that mostly meant sitting with him, pressing innumerable cups of tea and water on him, and alternating between warm blankets and damp cloths to keep him comfortable, it wouldn't do to go and get involved in the intricate, twisted path of memory.

Or to get any more involved, really. Crowley's fevered mumblings were mostly about the past. Their past. Their tangle of sins and virtues and memories and the unvoiced desire that threaded through it all.

Aziraphale was holding Crowley when his fever broke on the third night, felt the heat leave his body limp and exhausted, and felt himself kiss sweat-damp skin before he even thought to offer a prayer of gratitude.

There was desire in that, too, in the gratitude and relief Aziraphale felt. Desire, for more of the physical closeness that had been established between the two of them; hope, that the small shows of affection from Crowley would continue after his illness; and guilt, for feeling the other two so very strongly.

Not enough guilt to keep Aziraphale away from Crowley, however. He slept more easily that third night, especially as morning approached, sprawled across Aziraphale instead of curled tightly around him. Still, Aziraphale stayed with Crowley and promised himself only one more night. Crowley would hardly stand it afterwards and part of Aziraphale wanted to take advantage of the rare warmth of closeness.

* * * *

Crowley could tell it was morning not just from the sunlight slipping through the curtains in Aziraphale's bedroom, but from the sounds coming from the shop downstairs that could only mean Aziraphale was doing his puttering. Which was a shame, really, since this was the first time he'd woken up in the past few days and didn't discover that his head was spinning and his throat felt like he'd had it harrowed by one of Hell's more enthusiastic denizens. That whole cuddling thing they'd been doing would probably feel better, too, now that he wasn't delirious.

Oh.

Huh.

Cuddling.

Well.

Right.

Crowley scrubbed his hands through his hair and over his face. Cuddling was new. New and probably wrong. Which meant it could be right. Or not. He really wasn't altogether sure, which, again, could be a good or bad thing.

Which was making Crowley's head spin all over again. He slipped off the bed to search for Aziraphale, changed his mind when he noticed he was still only wearing boxer shorts, and, having materialized a robe and towel of slightly lower quality than he was used to but was the best he could manage without his full strength, headed for Aziraphale's little used shower.

Aziraphale was smoothing clean linens and duvet cover over the bed when Crowley returned. He was humming to himself, too, in that Aziraphale-like way that he had with things, quiet and distracted.

Endearing.

_Right_. Okay, this wasn't going away, and Crowley still didn't feel strong enough to fight the urge to press himself in close to Aziraphale again. Very close. Close enough to smell the light, almost musky scent of his skin (tea and books and heaven, yes, he wasn't wrong about that at all) and to wrap his arms around Aziraphale from behind and feel how warm and strong and solid he was. Just that close.

Aziraphale tensed in Crowley's arms at first. "You're feeling better."

"Much. And you…" _Feel good_. No. Wait. Just a little longer. He had to make sure he wasn't going to end up a complete fool over this blessed angel. "You stayed with me last night. And the night before. And. Yeah. That was nice."

Still tense, Aziraphale nodded, and he slowly relaxed as Crowley nuzzled into the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

"Maybe I could stay here a little longer. And you could stay with me." Crowley's voice rasped in his throat. He could blame it on illness, which was the easiest excuse, though he knew there was expectation and emotion there, too. "If we both stay…"

"Oh. My dear…" Aziraphale stayed close to him, hands stroking Crowley's arms, and turned to face him after a while. "If we both stay. Yes."

The sheets were cool and clean against Crowley's skin and Aziraphale was so much warmer than he remembered from the past few nights. And it was just as easy to curl his body around Aziraphale's and fall asleep when he was faint and breathless and exhausted with desire.


End file.
